


bone of your bones

by renquise



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She swore she’d only ever belong to herself, but she’s realized that Christa is as much a part of her as her limbs or her organs, something vital and necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bone of your bones

There’s no fast way to get out of the 3D gear, and it’s inconvenient as hell when Ymir is trying her level best to get her hand down someone’s pants. Christa pulls away from the kiss with a laugh when Ymir’s hands fumble on the buckles, colour high in her cheeks when she undoes Ymir’s chest strap but they manage, somehow, shuffling most of the way out of their clothes until Ymir decides that it’s good enough, pulling Christa down to the pallet in the store room and definitely not tripping on the straps tangled around her legs.

They don’t have any more duties this afternoon, and they have time to take it slow, but Ymir is greedy as fuck, and wants Christa’s skin under her hands.

Christa tips her head up to kiss Ymir hard, her breath catching on a gasp, and here, Christa demands more, wants more, selfish and fucking beautiful when she takes hold of Ymir’s wrist and pushes her fingers deeper, grinding down against the knuckle of Ymir’s thumb and hissing between her teeth. 

She’s wet like late summer, like the peach Ymir had once stolen from an orchard, the flesh and thin skin tearing under her (blunt) teeth, the juice sticking between her fingers, sweet and hot and like nothing else she remembered tasting before. When she had pressed her fingers into its summer-swollen curve, it left an imprint. Christa’s skin is peach-soft and peach-warm and peach-rosy, but not peach-delicate, for all that Ymir’s fingers and mouth leave marks, sometimes. 

Christa presses her palm to Ymir’s cunt, and Ymir grinds down on the heel of her hand, the seam of her pants rubbing against her. Christa’s lips are soft and fine, but she kisses like she’s hungry, like she’s always been hungry, her mouth open and her small tongue inside Ymir’s mouth, and Ymir just opens up and takes it, takes it all, because she is always hungry, too. 

Ymir moves down and puts her mouth to where her fingers are moving inside Christa, because she’s wanted her mouth between Christa’s thighs since forever. Christa has her hand on Ymir’s head, still so fucking gentle even when her thighs are trembling and tense, her small shoulders hitched up, and she doesn’t taste sweet, but earthy and human and so fucking good. Christa isn’t loud, and even though Ymir wants to make her shout, open and unabashed, there’s Ymir’s name twisted in her breath, and Ymir has to hitch up her own hips and shove her hand down to press her fingers to her clit because it’s fucking embarrassing, but yeah, that alone could pretty much do it for her.

My body feels so fucking right when it’s with yours, Ymir wants to say, which is stupid and obvious. 

Ymir feels caught in the bounds of her skin, sometimes, the straps around her legs and her chest too-tight, a reminder that she could be able to swing and leap without the gear. It’s been a long time since she had the chance to stretch her arms out, feel the coiling of flesh around her limbs and the short moment between breaths where her body is not hers, before her awareness reaches the tips of her fingers grown long and dangerous. When she tears herself out of her body’s grasp, her muscles quivering and the skin around her eyes drawn tight, it feels like she’s left something behind, but she can feel, hear the rush of blood in her veins, and she clings to it for all she’s worth, because she’ll go only go down messily, kicking and screaming and selfish to the end.

Christa is light, and she flies easily without using much gas, fast and agile in the air for all that she lacks the strength for a deep cut. Ymir thinks that Christa could use a larger body to wrap around herself, sinew and muscle and armor. She’s fucking tiny, all slim bird bones that would crack under teeth in a second.

Christa comes on Ymir’s fingers and Ymir’s tongue with a gasp and a long shiver that bends her spine and curls her toes, and it makes Ymir want to keep going, to pull another one out of her, to kiss the arch of her foot where her feet are still wrapped for her gear and to swear fealty, to say, I am yours. 

(She swore she’d only ever belong to herself, but she’s realized that Christa is as much a part of her as her limbs or her organs, something vital and necessary, but it’s different, because she’s chosen to make Christa part of her bones, as much as you can choose something that seems so obvious. It should scare her more than it does.)

Ymir already has her fingers inside herself when Christa tugs her up, kissing her hard and tipping Ymir over to the side so that she can slide her fingers to join Ymir’s, pressing hard at her clit and sliding in alongside Ymir’s own. The stretch is so good, and Christa’s cheeks are blotchy and red and flushed with blood and they are both so fucking alive, right here and right now. 

Christa gives as good as she gets—better—and when Ymir feels the surprising strength of Christa’s small, white hand high on her throat (neat fingernails, tough skin on the heel of palm and calluses on the inside of her thin fingers, where the grip rides), Ymir tips her head to the side and shudders, offering her the pulsing vein and the taut tendon and the gap between her vertebrae, Christa’s mouth soft and deliberate on her skin.

When she opens her eyes, Christa is looking at her, her lips wet and swollen with kisses. She places her hands on either side of Ymir’s face, and Ymir turns her head into her grasp and puts her lips to the hollow of Christa’s palm. Christa’s face goes soft, her fingers curling over the kiss. 

Ymir bites the meat at the heel of her palm, then, because like hell is this going to get sappy on her. If anything, though, Christa’s soft smile grows wider, and her brow wrinkles adorably. 

“You are the worst at this cuddling thing,” Christa says, and Ymir might throw up at how cute it is, and Christa would only have herself to blame for ruining the mood.

“Deal with it,” she mutters into Christa’s palm.

“Okay,” Christa agrees. She scoots up and kisses Ymir's forehead, her freckles, and her mouth, and doesn't shy from Ymir's teeth.


End file.
